


Rough Nights

by GentleGiraffe



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, takes place after s2e16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 12:25:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16175048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GentleGiraffe/pseuds/GentleGiraffe
Summary: Harry realizes that drinking helps him cope...or at least helps him forget that he isn't coping very well at all. Dale also realizes this, and goes to check on his friend.Sort of canon-divergent as other plot points are put on hold for this, but this keeps in mind Harry's drunken Bookhouse incident.





	Rough Nights

Harry recognized the feeling. A gentle reminder, a tugging at his brain, a single word: drink. It started small but wouldn’t leave. It kept nagging, and Harry knew it wouldn’t stop unless he did exactly what it was saying. Even if it started out as a suggestion, it quickly grew into a command. 

Harry recognized the feeling in his bones. His nerves felt too far away, he needed something to come and collect him, to hold him together. He could have used a hug. Anything to keep him in one piece, to keep parts of him from disappearing. He could have used a hug and he knew a drink would work. He knew the warmth would spread quickly, would coat his insides and wrap around him like a blanket. He knew a drink would work and the thought that always followed came soon after: he knew a drink was essential. 

Harry recognized the feeling. The budding shame that tiptoed through the back of his mind. The simple thought that there were other ways to solve discomfort. The possibility that if he kept doing this, there might be a problem. The possibility that there already was a problem. The knowledge that even if he managed to spend the night occupied with other things, with coffee or a book or a brisk walk in the woods, it wouldn’t be enough. The desire, the necessity, would still be there. 

His mind reeled in a lazy, dull way, as though trying to run through knee-deep water. His thoughts bounced and he took inventory. He didn’t have any beer left, he had finished it a few days ago. Had he eaten dinner? He didn’t want to go to a bar, he had no desire to interact with anyone. Maybe he should sleep. He still had his whiskey—but—no, he didn’t. Finished that yesterday. He could walk to the general store down the street, but he felt as though people might know why he was going. There it was again, that possibility of shame. But, what did it really matter anyway.

His head felt spacey. Like he was being high-jacked by this new task. No matter how long he tried to put it off, it wasn’t going to leave him alone. He’d gone days before, but it would always come back. What was the point of trying to postpone the inevitable? 

Harry recognized the feeling that his body was yearning for this and, resolute, he put his hat on and stepped out the door. It wasn’t yet dark, and the hazy dusk helped solidify how scattered he felt. As if he were watching pieces of him fall away. He had no desire to collect them. How shiftless he’d become, how passive. 

He trudged down the driveway and distantly wondered why he had decided not to drive. But it was a quick walk, over soon. A car passed him and his heart rate spiked, just for a moment. Whoever that was knew. Knew all about him and the reason he was outside right now. They must. He readjusted his hat and looked at the ground. Quick walk. Over soon. 

He suddenly felt foolish. The chill in the air felt good on his face. He didn’t need a drink. It was laughable to think he would need that. But he was already out. He was already there. He located his bottle of Jack quickly. Thought about grabbing something else off the shelf too, to mask the reason he was there, but decided he would feel stupid either way. Averted the clerk’s eyes but they knew. This town was small and everyone knew about Sheriff Truman’s shortcomings. 

\-----------------

When Harry arrived home he stood in the doorway, brown paper bag in hand, and was acutely aware of the nervous excitement prickling in his fingers. Even the weight of the bottle was familiar and welcome. And then suddenly, Harry felt immensely self-conscious again. What was he doing, wasting his night like this? He was mad at himself, and embarrassed. He felt the incredible urge to throw the bottle he had just purchased and watch it explode against the ground. But that would be a waste. It was all just a waste. 

There was no one here to judge him. Why was he getting so worked up? There was no one here to judge him, there was no one here at all. No one here—wasn’t that the problem? He kicked off his shoes and threw his hat down before stalking to kitchen.

Now that he had it, he wasn’t even sure that he wanted it. He set the bottle down on the counter. He had better things to do. But the thing was, he didn’t. Nights were long and unknown. A stretch of time with heightened senses and no distractions. He moved through them in a daze whether he was drinking or not. Couldn’t distinguish one night from the next. Slept too much or slept too little. Never felt refreshed the next day for work anyway, so it really didn’t matter what he did or didn’t do.

Harry moved to put some of his clean dishes away, anything to make him feel like he wasn’t just wasting the night, but then he had a glass in his hand and he set it down next to the bottle.

The sound of the cap as he unscrewed it helped steady his breathing and the pungent smell that rose out of the bottle overwhelmed him in the most comforting way. He poured and then brought the glass to eye-level, almost ritualistically, before taking a deep gulp. 

His throat burned and it was a welcome feeling, much better than the lingering restlessness, the awful sensation of choking back tears, or, worse, feeling nothing at all. This was a pain he inflicted on himself and it carried a great air of warmth with it. Relief flooded through him as he took another sip and then another, the burning sensation traveling up into his ears and down through his esophagus. 

The demands pulling at his willpower were silenced. He did what was needed and now he could feel solace. Or, at least, feel something distracting enough to forget he wasn’t feeling solace. 

He poured himself some more and threw it back into his throat, hungry for it. The ship had sailed at this point. He had had a drink. He could have another. And another. It was easier when he was incapacitated like this. At least he had an excuse for not being what he wanted, for not being what his town deserved. 

His town—as if he could claim such a thing. What had he done for anyone here? How many lives had been ruined here? He was doing a shit job compared to his brother, and his dad before that. Both moved on to bigger and better things. This was all he had going for him, and he couldn’t even do that right. It was laughable to think he could protect anyone, let alone an entire town. He laughed out loud, hallow and emotionless. The sound felt far away in his ears and he was only distantly aware that he was the one making it. 

Draining the glass, Harry paused for a moment, overcome with anger that this was the situation he was in. That this is how he chose to deal with everything. That this was the only thing he felt capable of doing. Suddenly he considered how satisfying it would be to throw the glass in his hand, hard, and before he had even fully formulated the thought he had whipped his hand down. 

He watched it shatter, quickly, but almost in slow motion. Bits of glass bouncing up off the floor where they first hit. The movement was difficult to take in. Mesmerized, frozen in place, he studied the pieces. And then, without really thinking, he swiped a plate off the counter and watched the dull white ceramic join the clear glass. 

“You’re making a mess, Sheriff.” He chided himself before kicking the counter and shouting, “You’ve made a goddamn mess!” 

His foot throbbed where it had made contact with the cabinet, and Harry appreciated the sensation. Aimlessly and without any real desire to do so, he took a drink straight from the bottle. He didn’t want to bother getting out another glass. It barely crossed his mind. 

He moved towards the broken glass on the floor, half intending to clean it up, but he overshot his step and stumbled, catching himself on the wall. He laughed again. It felt good to laugh at himself, even if it was accompanied with a small bit of pity he kept trying to swat out of his mind like an unwanted fly.

It wasn’t as hard as it usually was to keep thoughts away right now. Everything entered and left his mind with such a casual ferocity, bent on avoiding any attachment. 

He was floating and he was so thankful. 

\-----------------

Harry’s door was unlocked, as Dale suspected. Even with the drastic spike in crime lately, Harry trusted Twin Peaks. Upon stepping inside Dale noticed Harry’s boots haphazardly strewn on the floor. A hat and crumpled paper bag not far off. 

“Harry?” Dale called out, his voice tinny in the silent cabin. 

He heard a quiet grunt and followed it, seeing broken glass on the kitchen floor and Harry slumped in a chair at the table, cradling the bottle of Jack. It pained him to see Harry like this, even if it had been exactly what he was expecting, even if it was the whole reason he was here in the first place.

Harry lifted his head, tilted slightly sideways, and swayed in his chair as he saluted Dale with the bottle in his hand. “Special agent.” 

“Well Harry, not right now.” 

Harry didn’t acknowledge the correction as he took another swig. He felt like he was on autopilot. Someone else was controlling his movements. Drinking was easier than sitting up straight. Easier than realizing there was a coworker in the room with him. Easier than focusing his eyes. 

Dale took a hesitant step forward and extended an arm. “Harry, why don’t you give me that?” 

“’s mine”.

“Harry,” Dale took another step forward “It looks like you’ve had a rough night. I think you’ve had enough.” 

Harry shook his head and started laughing, a grin spreading wide across his face as he breathed a chuckle out his nose before his vocal cords joined in. “A rough night.” He lifted his head, looking in Coop’s direction under hooded eyelids. “A rough night?” He repeated, his voice a low growl.

“A rough night. A rough week. I know this is hard. I want to help Harry, I want to make sure you’re okay.” He was so overcome with the desire to reach out and grab Harry, to hold him close. The hug they shared at the Bookhouse had been on repeat in his mind. The way Harry had tucked his head in and grabbed his arm made his heart ache in a way he hadn’t felt in quite some time. All Dale wanted to do was protect the wonderful sheriff of this strange little town. 

“Well it’s a little late for that, Cooper.” 

Harry’s words were biting. The malice in his voice caught Dale off-guard. He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes and shifted his weight on his feet. “Not everything needs to be bound by time. Late is a relative statement, you know.” 

A beat. Silence. Harry couldn’t put in the effort to make sense of Dale’s words. He took another drink.

Dale held the silence, choking back the urge to wrestle the bottle away from him. And then, gently “I’m concerned about you Harry.” 

Harry spit, sloppy and ineffectively. Toying with the bottle in his hands, avoiding Coop’s eyes. Quietly, unconvincingly, in a way he didn’t even believe, he spoke. “I’m fine.” 

Hesitantly, Dale chose not to take another step forward. He felt a strong connection to Harry, that much was true, but in the grand scheme of things, they hadn’t known each other very long at all. Dale was still unsure of exactly how to interact with him when he was like this. Nervous, he opted for dry humor. “If this is fine, I’d hate to see what bad looked like.” 

Harry didn’t respond but Dale took his lack of anger as progress. He knew Harry tended to yell at times like this. He didn’t want it to escalate to that. Harry certainly wasn’t in a state for confrontation.

Dale decided instead to focus on getting something into Harry other than alcohol. He quickly started a pot of coffee, filling the oppressive silence with a light-hearted retelling of Lucy’s reaction to a book on Tibet he’d recommended to her. 

Harry was vaguely aware of Coop’s attempt to change the subject, and felt distantly guilty that he was the reason a subject would need changing. He thought about standing up to help Coop, or to prove that he didn’t need someone here, to show he was fine, but the idea never reached his legs and he remained seated and unsteady. Eyes making fuzzy sense of the world, he watched as Coop grabbed a broom and started sweeping up the broken plate and glass on the ground. Thankfully, Coop didn’t ask about it. Harry wouldn’t have known how to answer. 

He took another drink, and felt awash with exhaustion. 

Suddenly there was a sandwich and a cup of coffee in front of him, Dale gently smiling nearby. “I figured you could probably use some food.” 

Harry wasn’t sure how long Cooper had been here, or what time it was, but he didn’t want to eat. He wanted to go back to losing track of the present moment. He wanted to leave. He wanted to sleep. 

Dale noticed Harry’s reticence and sat down next to him. Put one hand on the bottle Harry still held, tried to gauge his resistance. The grip was loose, and Dale was able to slip it out, placing it on the table out of Harry’s reach.

Harry opened his mouth in protest, but shut it soon after. His mind was foggy. His head started to nod down and he had no intentions of fighting it. 

He was alone again and then Dale’s hand was on his shoulder, shaking him, whispering his name. Harry rolled his head over onto Dale’s hand and then he felt pressure on his other shoulder, and Dale was holding him, centering him. 

“C’mon Harry. Let’s get you to bed.” 

At first, Harry seemed about to stand on his own, but he pretty quickly stumbled, forcing most of his weight into Dale’s shoulder. Dale lifted his shoulder up and maneuvered his arm around Harry’s waist trying to get a grip on the other man. Eventually they managed to hobble towards Harry’s room, Harry swaying back and forth and Dale fighting to reign him in, murmuring small words of encouragement. 

“There ya go Harry, that’s it.” 

Dale gently lowered Harry onto the bed, and was glad to see his eyes close again the second his head met the pillow.

Leaving the room, Dale went back to the kitchen to fill a glass with water, and then rooted around in the medicine cabinet to find some painkillers. He placed them both on the side table next to Harry’s bed, and then let his gaze drift over to the troubled man sleeping there. 

Dale felt such a warmth towards him, such a strong desire to shield him from pain. He grabbed the blanket at the foot of the bed and slowly brought it up over Harry’s shoulders. His hand came down with the blanket to rest on Harry’s back and stayed there for a few seconds, rising and falling with Harry’s breath. 

Eventually Dale brought himself to break the contact, rubbing Harry’s back as a final gesture before pulling apart and walking away. In the threshold of the door he wished Harry a restful night’s sleep. Tomorrow was another day.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a couple ideas floating around for ways to continue this, so we shall see how my schedule is and if I find some time to write more!  
> And please feel free to let me know what you think of this so far :)


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